Waiting
by DidoTwite
Summary: The shoes were a sign, and Lisbon had been waiting for a sign.
1. Chapter 1

It was the shoes she noticed first. Smart lace-ups in dark grey leather. Lisbon was no expert on men's fashion but they looked expensive. Quietly expensive. After five years or more of the same scuffed brown numbers, this was worthy of comment.

"Been shopping," she said, pointing at the shoes with her pen.

He murmured his assent then went back to his book. Lisbon returned to her budgets.

Then other shoes turned up: regulation black, a light tan, an understated dark brown.

His shirts improved. They were the same mix of pale stripes as before, but no longer crumpled. No loose threads at the cuffs. No missing buttons.

There were probably new suits as well, but she couldn't pick them out. Clothes weren't really her thing. But he looked sharp, well presented.

He had always had presence, the ability to command a room. But it had come with a certain volatility, an edge of chaos, that left people discomforted, wary, and had scratched her nerves like fingernails down a blackboard.

In its place he exuded calm. It wasn't real serenity, but a carefully controlled appearance of equanimity that fooled most people most of the time. He could still rip into suspects with the same razor sharp mix of pinpoint observation and downright abuse, but they didn't see it coming now. Mostly.

The shoes were a sign, and Lisbon had been waiting for a sign.

They had captured Red John in a violent and bloody showdown. He lived now in a secure facility in some Podunk town in the far east of the state. His physical injuries kept him confined to a wheelchair. His brain damage left him unable to speak or write, and probably unable to think much, although they couldn't be entirely sure how badly damaged he was.

She had no idea what Jane thought about it. He had been part of the team that trapped Red John and his inner circle, and stood beside her and Rigsby as they had pumped out round after round in that last, brutal hour of battle. Was that enough? Had he purged his desire for vengeance? She didn't know.

She knew that she felt good about it. She had dark, unchristian satisfaction at the thought of all that evil sitting slumped in a wheelchair, drooling, unable even to feed himself.

She had kept a weather eye on Jane after the shooting, uncertain how he would react.

The first day back in the office, she had been at her desk, laboriously documenting the capture, detailing each and every shot, formally justifying the deaths and the injuries. Jane had parked himself on her couch, quietly reading a book.

"Too much excitement around your sofa?" She had asked.

"Too much noise," Jane had answered. "The sound of collective backslapping is deafening. I'll wait until it drops to a dull roar."

But he never did relocate. Jane became a fixture in her office, ambling off to make tea when she needed some privacy, providing a caustic commentary on her attempts to manage her superiors, delivering a coffee and pastry each morning and a regular supply of caffeine throughout the afternoon.

She had thought about moving him on. She had made a few digs about how lonely his sofa must be getting, but didn't push it. She could keep a better eye on him this way, just in case things went south. She knew he was fragile, knew about his breakdown, couldn't be certain quite how the cards would fall once Red John was put away.

The shoes reassured her. They were an investment in the future, a statement that there would be a next week, a next year. Lisbon liked that.


	2. Chapter 2

To be honest, Lisbon had expected Jane to leave the CBI once Red John had been put away. His smart suits had never really belonged amongst the rough edges of the police. Some of the agents might show off some fancy tailoring, but you only had to scratch the surface to find a hardened cop ready for some back alley take-down.

One morning he was absent from her sofa, turning up just before lunchtime.

"I hear you had a meeting with HR," she said. "Checking your pension entitlements?"

"I'm thinking of taking a holiday," he said. "Apparently I have to fill out some forms."

The forms arrived late afternoon. When Lisbon needed forms from HR, she received them by email. For Jane, they were personally delivered by Inge Delloitte, one of the recent crop of graduate trainees.

Inge was elegant. She wore a cream blouse, tan knee-length skirt and low heels, and looked groomed enough to lunch with royalty. Mid-brown hair fell to her waist. No trashy blonde highlights. Light make-up. Understated jewellery. Deep brown eyes. Perfect skin.

For someone who worked offsite in the administrative centre, Inge spent a lot of time passing through Serious Crimes. She chatted to Jane beside the elevator a few days later. The following week she happened to be in the kitchen when Jane was making tea. According to Rigsby, they'd been seen having a coffee together at Marie's.

"How's the holiday planning going?" Lisbon asked drily.

"Still thinking about it," Jane replied.

A few weeks later Jane surprised her.

"We haven't celebrated putting Red John away," he said. "We should celebrate."

"You want to have a pizza for catching Red John?"

"No. Not pizza. Dinner. Somewhere nice."

"Seriously?"

"Come on, Lisbon. You must have a little black dress in your wardrobe. Something demure, just above the knee, perfect for all those occasions where the little black pantsuit won't quite make the grade."

"And if I did, what makes you think I would wear it out to dinner with you?"

"Lisbon, think of all the times you wanted to shoot me, all the times you wanted to punch my nose and didn't, all those times. This dinner is my way of saying thank you for your forbearance."

"Jane, you can thank me by not making me want to punch you in the first place. Or better yet, by making a heartfelt apology for your rudeness to our victim's brother-in-law. Not dinner. The answer is no."

The cave-in was inevitable. Saturday found her in dress and heels sipping red wine in some fancy place with dim lighting and waiters in designer t-shirts. Jane was looking hot in one of his new suits, charming their waitress and debating the pros and cons of the side dishes.

"There is nothing wrong with red cabbage, Lisbon. Just because it reminds you of some monstrosity your great aunt used to cook doesn't mean you should reject it out of hand. That's close minded."

"Whatever," said Lisbon and looked up at the waitress. "We'll have the cabbage."

She was relieved Jane hadn't turned up with flowers, that would have felt too much like a date. Instead he had waited till she got in the car and draped a wrap over her shoulders with an offhand comment. It was only when she reached the restaurant that she had seen the soft pattern in reds and greens and the dull sheen of silk.

She had to admit she was having fun. The food was ridiculous, with tiny leaves strewn around the plate and a surprisingly tasty cluster of bubbles in place of a sauce. The waiters were a bit pretentious about it all, but she hadn't been out like this in ages. Hadn't got dressed up and hit the town for a very long time.

"What should we do next weekend?" asked Jane, as he signalled for the bill. "There is a northern Italian place I would like to try. Excellent bollito misto."

"Shouldn't you be asking a date to go with you? God only knows why, but there are women who would agree to go out with you. They might even manage a second date if you keep your mouth shut."

"No," he replied. "I'm not dating."

A shadow passed over his face. Lisbon changed the subject.

They had northern Italian and southern Italian, modern Greek and Moroccan. After a greasy and unsuccessful Kazakh meal, they stuck to the Mediterranean. Egypt, Catalonia, the south of France.

Jane invited her over to his new, modern, glass and timber apartment, bought with the proceeds from his Malibu beach house. They ordered in and watched movies and Lisbon fell asleep on the sofa.

She woke to find herself leaning against Jane, his arm casually draped across the back of the sofa, playing with a few strands of her hair. He felt warm and smelt like summers at the seaside.

"It's late. I should go," she said. "Sorry to conk out on you."

Jane kept playing with her hair, his breath soft against her cheek. "You could stay," he said. "I'd like you to stay."

"I'm sure your sofa cost more than I pay in rent for a year, but it is still not as comfortable as my bed."

"That's not what I meant," he said and held her gaze, his hand still playing with her hair.

Lisbon jerked back, uncomfortable. "I've got to go."

On Monday morning he arrived with her usual coffee and pastry, his usual sunny smile. She put on her serious face and started her talk about work and boundaries and professional relationships.

He heard her out without interruption.

"I stepped over the line," he said. "I'm sorry. Won't happen again."

It was such an un-Jane-like speech that she was about to check if he was ok. But Cho stuck his head in the door to say that they had a body and the conversation was lost in a welter of phone calls.

They were on the case for six days, out in the hill country. All the forensics pointed to the neighbour, mad as a cut snake, and on record for pointing a gun at the vic. But Jane twigged to the owner of the boutique tourist resort who wanted a road across the vic's land to link up to the highway.

God knows, after six days spent driving around the interminable twisting country roads, she almost understood his motive. If it hadn't been for Jane they might have charged the neighbour. They would have charged the neighbour.

Their first day back at CBI, Jane came into her office and closed the door.

"I've just been to see Bertram," he said. "I'm going to take that trip I was thinking of. Go to Mexico for a while."

Lisbon nodded, uncertain where this was going.

"It's time I moved on," Jane said. "I've resigned."


	3. Chapter 3

Jane had said, "I'm leaving the CBI, I'm not leaving you." But she didn't believe him. His eyes had the faraway look of someone seeking distant horizons. She expected a few postcards, a few Christmas cards, then that slow fade-out as he found another life in another town.

Lisbon drove him to the airport and waved him off with a big, fake smile. She felt grumpy and out of sorts.

She consciously tried not to take her crappy mood out on the team, but she was tetchy, difficult and short-tempered.

She had a new boss, Eleanor Bates, who was demanding and swift to criticise. Lisbon knew that she should focus on finding common ground and build a positive relationship, but somehow ended up in a perpetual rearguard action, constantly on the back foot.

With Jane gone, the cases moved more slowly and sometimes didn't move at all. Several times, she found herself turning to him to ask his opinion on a suspect, forgetting for a moment that he wasn't there.

The team didn't talk about Jane's departure or Bates' unreasonableness or her own bad moods. They just knuckled under and worked harder. She appreciated their professionalism.

The first postcard arrived two weeks after Jane left. The photo was of an idyllic beach scene, with palm trees, rolling breakers, undulating sand, and bright sunshine. The reverse had a banal message: "A lovely stretch of coastline! love Patrick".

The second arrived ten days later. This one had a lone man on a horse looking across the plains towards a brilliant red sunset. It looked fresh out of a spaghetti Western, complete with six-shooter. The message read: "Ride 'em cowboy! Love Patrick".

They continued to arrive every week or so. She put them on her kitchen windowsill. In the mornings, when she was making coffee, she sometimes picked them up and looked at them.

She had no way of contacting him to see how he was going. He didn't bother with an email address and hadn't sent her his new, Mexican phone number, if he even had one.

Initially, she felt worried, concerned that he was hiding some sort of breakdown or even just low spirits. After eleven postcards with their brief, trite messages, she gave up worrying. She moved the postcards into the drawer containing her old bank statements, pulled on her sweat pants and went for a long overdue run.

Keith Hollister from SAC PD asked her out for a drink, and she surprised herself by accepting. Keith had broad shoulders, a solid, muscled chest and a slow, laconic way of talking. He was divorced, but amicably so. They had a drink together and played some pool. He asked her out on another date, and she said yes.

Keith was easy to be with. They went to the movies, watched ball games, and played some more pool. He rang one evening when she was on her way to the shooting range, and ended up joining her there. She out-shot him and he didn't seem to mind. Lisbon liked his laid-back style.

He persuaded her to take a rare day of leave and spend a long weekend with him. They took his Harley along the coast road, staying at a lovely beach-side bed and breakfast. The next day they had lunch at a small, but charming restaurant up in the hills and spent the night in a rather chintzy cabin with a view across the valleys.

He had clearly pulled out all stops to create a lovely weekend for her.

The man was A-grade relationship material. He was considerate, easy-going, good looking and clearly not threatened by her more senior rank or her take-charge attitude. Her team liked him. Her brothers would approve of him, if they ever got to meet him. He might even pass Minelli's exacting standards, given the chance. It was a pity Lisbon just couldn't see a future in it.

She let him down gently.

"Is there someone else?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Nothing like that."

"I'm just asking because I thought we were getting along pretty well."

Lisbon thought for a while. "Maybe it is just not the right time for me."

"If the right time comes along, then give me a call," he said.

Lisbon felt like pond scum.

It didn't help that Inge Delloitte had started hanging around again, this time with Rigsby.

"What is she doing here?" Lisbon asked Cho.

"She's nosey. She looks at Rigsby's baby photos then asks questions about the team," he said. "She wanted to know if Van Pelt was seeing anyone. Asked about you."

"Get rid of her," she said. "Shoot her if you have to."

The postcards had stopped arriving. In June, there were four postcards. In July, there were none. Lisbon had expected a slow tailing off, not this sudden halt in contact. She tried not to worry, tried to remember that he could look after himself, tried not to care.

He had left her the keys to his apartment. She dropped by, just to check on things. Not for any reason, really.

It looked like a photo shoot for an interior decoration magazine. Everything was precisely placed, all the paraphernalia of life neatly folded away.

There was one errant shirt draped over the laundry hamper. It still retained the scent of Jane. No fragrant cologne, just his warm male smell.

One evening, she found a small, neatly wrapped parcel in her postbox. Inside, there was a silver paper weight in the shape of a frog. Underneath was a handwritten note. It said: 'Patrick Jane c/- White Sands Resort' and listed a postal address, email and phone number.

Lisbon looked at the frog for a while. It was quite lovely. She found herself smiling.

She sent a text: _Apology accepted._

He replied immediately: _Can I call you?_

She answered: _Since when did you ask permission?_

They spoke for an hour. She couldn't recall what they talked about, some ramble through beaches and cacti and Mexican food and recent cases and how the team was.

"Come and visit me," he said. "How else are you going to know I haven't sunk into a terrible depression?"

"Nice try. Pity some of us have to work."

She was still smiling when Bates called her in for a meeting a few days later. She felt entirely ready for whatever bureaucratic nitpicking was on the agenda.

This time it was annual leave. She hadn't taken her full quota of leave last year and neither had Cho. They were both to submit their leave plans for the remainder of the year.

Lisbon sent Jane a text: _Were you serious about me coming to visit?_


	4. Chapter 4

Jane was nervous, uncertain. A week's visit was not really long enough for his plans to unfold. It would take a little time to re-establish their old camaraderie, return to the rhythm of their friendship. And more time for him to move it to something a little warmer, a little closer. Or it could just be seven days of awkwardness with an old friend and colleague who no longer felt she had anything in common with him.

He didn't know, had no way of knowing, and he kept the array of possibilities on a perpetual mental loop.

The airport arrivals hall was filled with the usual mix of excitable children, tired parents, scruffy backpackers and taxi touts. It took Teresa a full minute to realise that Jane was waving at her.

"From CBI consultant to beach bum. Nice career move," she said. "I bet you have an entire wardrobe of torn jeans and shirts from the charity shop."

"I missed you too, Lisbon. Good flight?"

"I had a great flight," she answered. "Apparently my fiancée upgraded me to business class. You know anything about that?"

"They would only let family members do upgrades. I hope you liked the champagne."

Jane took her hand to guide her through the crowd. Her hand was warm. He kept hold of it in the taxi, and she made no comment.

"This resort sounds pretty nice, 'The White Sands'. How did you end up there?"

Jane looked at her sideways. "The resort is sort-of a postal address for me. I don't actually stay there. We're a little way further out of town."

"If this is some fleapit hotel, I swear it, I will punch you."

"Of course not. It's a house. There is hot water and everything."

It was more of a shack than a house, if he was being fair. Two modest bedrooms, a bathroom and a living room with a tiny kitchen against the far wall. But the generous patio area looked straight out through a cluster of trees onto the beach. And the sound of the waves ebbed and flowed in the breeze.

"Nice, huh?"

"I was expecting room service."

"Details, Lisbon, details. I'll make you a coffee then we can go for a swim."

He made two espressos with the shiny Italian stovetop coffee maker. He half-filled Teresa's cup with warm milk, and left his black.

Teresa looked at him as though he had grown horns and a tail.

"You can't get decent tea in Mexico. It's a known fact," he told her.

She continued to eye him warily. There was a burst of excited noises from the neighbouring yard and a soccer ball landed on the patio, rolling to a halt under the battered wooden bench. Jane wandered over and picked it up, hefting it over the paling fence with a few words of Spanish.

"Ready for the beach?" he asked.

Jane had a ten-foot Malibu leaning up against the back wall. He said, "That's for you if you want to try it." There was a shorter, sleeker board beside it. "That's mine."

"I'm not a great swimmer."

"Give it a try. I think you'll like it. You're used to swimming amongst the sharks."

It took her two solid hours to get past the breakers. He had chosen the quieter end of the beach but the waves were still dumpers. She set at it doggedly, bull at a gate, paddling back repeatedly, focused, determined. Gradually soaking up the rhythm of the waves, realising how to move through the currents, dip and roll under the crests, and paddle into the quiet water.

She sat upright on her board, her legs dangling in the water, looking towards the beach. Jane paddled over to join her. They sat there together, rising and falling with the swell, watching the waves.

In the evening, they sat on the patio listening to the sound of the sea. He longed to hold her hand again, to feel her warmth, but knew it was too much. He was used to being patient, to playing the long game. He could wait.


	5. Chapter 5

Jane insisted on buying Teresa a straw hat at the markets.

"I'm wearing sunscreen. I don't need some ridiculous hat."

"It's not ridiculous. If you got rid of those functional cop sunglasses and wore something more feminine, you'd be exuding elfin charm under that wide brim. Like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's."

Teresa snorted.

"You need a hat, Lisbon. I'm sure even Jason Bourne wears a hat when he is in Mexico."

"No."

"Clint Eastwood wears a hat as The Man With No Name. Black felt. You can't get tougher than Clint."

"No."

"You're getting freckles, Lisbon. They're cute, but you've only been here two days. You'll have a whole constellation of them by the end of the week if you're not careful."

"I might not last the week. I might have flown back to Sacramento before the freckles get a chance. I might be reaching for my phone right now to book an early flight home."

"But then you'd miss out on the most disgustingly greasy chicken tacos in the whole of Latin America."

"Ok. You've got me. I'll stay for lunch."

"Pity I've forgotten where the taco place is."

Teresa looked at him for a long minute, then jammed on the hat. "Happy?"

"Very. Let's go eat."

By Wednesday morning, Teresa was looking well rested. The dark circles under her eyes had faded and there was no longer any sign of tension in her shoulders. She had worked out how to use his temperamental coffee maker and had taken a liking to one of the local specialities, tiny pastries filled with rich custard and caramel.

"I can see why you like it here. If I didn't have all those bad guys to catch, I'd find another sad excuse for a beach house and camp out here for a few months myself."

Jane made a very private phone call to Inge Delloitte.

That afternoon, Lisbon received a message from Bates. Cho and the team were picking over cold cases. There was no urgency for her to get back. Did she want to take another week and use up some of her backlog of leave?

Lisbon put the phone down. "I don't know how you did that. I'm not even going to ask."

"But you will stay."

"Reformatting case closure data or looking at your smug face? It's a hard call."

Jane felt a wash of relief. Another seven days.


	6. Chapter 6

He had known that the seduction would not be easy. They had readily slipped into the familiar banter: his casual flirtation, her caustic response. The patterns of eight years of friendship re-established. But their easy camaraderie belied the formalities and distance that had always been part of their relationship.

Teresa had always treated him as a married man. Whatever her feelings might be, and he had his hopes on that score, she had consciously swept them aside. They were colleagues, partners, close friends even, but anything more was simply not to be considered. There was a clearly drawn line in the sand that she would not cross, would not even think about crossing.

His firmly erected boundaries weren't helping. He had spent years locking his feelings for her in a dark room populated by nightmare scenarios. Even now he could taste the faint edge of panic at the thought of getting close to her. The threat was gone but the discipline of maintaining distance was hard to shake.

Moving beyond the established parameters of their relationship felt awkward and slightly dangerous. If it wasn't Teresa, he would have swiftly found her weak spot and played his game accordingly. But it was Teresa, who knew all his games.

They got up early to surf, walked into the town centre for lunch, and returned home for a siesta during the heat of the day. In the evenings, they would visit one of the ramshackle local bars and down a beer or two.

Teresa had slotted easily into the rhythm of his days. She clearly enjoyed his company but that was as far as it went. He had absolutely no idea how to move things forward. They had another four days together before she flew out. He tried not to obsess about her departure.

They visited the White Sands resort so Jane could check his mail. Teresa stood quietly while he chatted to the receptionist.

"You can flirt in Spanish. I'm impressed."

"It's not a difficult language. I'll buy you a cocktail. They do a very good piña colada."

They had just received their drinks when an overweight American in a red shirt gave Jane a friendly slap on the shoulder.

"Long time, no see, Pat. How you doing? And who is this lovely lady?" The man pulled up a chair without waiting for an invitation, and leaned across the table to shake hands with Teresa.

"Cameron Bridges, I run the Hotel California on the strip."

"Teresa Lisbon. I'm visiting from Sacramento."

"Hi Cam. How's business?" Jane smiled politely. Unenthusiastically.

"Business would be better if you took up my offer." He turned to Teresa. "Did you know he could read palms? Best palm reader I have ever seen. Marcella, that's my lady friend, thinks he has the second sight."

"Really?"

"At our Fourth of July party at the bar, he was knocking back shots. Tequila, I think. Dancing on the tables. Life of the party. Turns out he was drowning his sorrows. His lady love had left him for some dumb cop on a Harley."

Lisbon choked into her cocktail.

"Then he gets up on the stage and says he can tell us our fortunes, read palms, that kind of thing. I'm telling you, the señoritas were queuing up for a reading."

"I'm sure they were."

"Next day I find him sleeping it off on the couch in my office. Not a pretty sight, let me tell you."

Cam's phone beeped. "I have to get going. Nice to meet you, Teresa. See you round, Pat."

Jane smiled politely, desperately uncomfortable. Ten days of careful ground work blown in a few painful minutes

Teresa eyed him speculatively.

"Life of the party, huh? Dancing on the tables?"

"Figuratively speaking."

"So, what was your seduction plan?" she asked.

Jane raised an eyebrow.

"You get drunk when you find out I'm dating someone, launch the charm offensive when I'm single, then invite me to visit. You have a plan. There's no point denying it."

It took Jane a minute to answer. He had an acute, painful memory of his inept proposition from all those months ago, and her swift departure. At least this time she was smiling. Perhaps the humour could mask the gut aching hurt of her rejection.

"I was thinking a walk along the beach one evening. And there's a bottle of tequila."

Teresa began laughing, and kept laughing until her eyes were streaming. "Classic approach. Tried and tested."

Jane had plastered on a relaxed half-smile, pretending to get the joke. He felt wary, uncertain, unable to read her.

Teresa wiped her eyes, attempting to compose herself. She caught a quick look at Jane's face then doubled over once again.

When her laughter eventually subsided, she gathered up her things and stood to leave. "Coming?"

"Where to?"

"Beach. Then tequila. Wasn't that the plan?"

He couldn't help the grin which spread over his face. She had never looked more beautiful. Her skin had a faint pink sheen from the sun and her hair curled slightly from the salt water. Her direct green gaze held a softness he had never seen before.

He reached for her hands and pressed a gentle kiss onto her fingertips. Teresa taking charge, bullying him into doing what she knew was right; that was a game he knew how to play.


	7. Chapter 7

**Here's the last chapter. Hope you like it.**

**Thanks for all the reviews. Really appreciate hearing from you.**

* * *

Jane woke with his face pressed into her hair, his arms wrapped tightly around her. He shook her awake gently, and they crawled out of bed, pulling on swim shorts and bikini in the half-darkness.

Jane made coffee and they drank silently, before grabbing boards and wetsuits and heading down to the beach.

They started early, while the sun was still barely visible on the horizon. Pink streaks spread across the waves. Too early even for the seagulls. They slid their boards into the water and began swimming.

Jane found the surf grounding. The restless movement of the waves, the complex push and pull, the cluster of half-formed swells followed by the perfect breaker. He understood the shifts and eddies with a mathematical precision. He knew this wasn't home for him. He knew he had to leave eventually. But the familiar patterns held him, nurtured him. He wasn't ready to let that go.

They peeled off their wetsuits to waist level then walked back to the house. Jane watched the water droplets track from her long, damp hair, across the muscles of her shoulders and between her shoulder blades. He had a powerful memory of gently undoing her bikini top and kissing away the seawater.

From the firm set of her body, he knew today was different. She intended to talk. He was filled with equal quantities of anticipation and sheer terror.

The tray of fruit was already on the table. He made another two coffees.

"You seem pretty settled here," she said.

"It's a holiday. I am coming back to Sacramento."

There was silence for a time.

"I don't like the idea of you finding another cop to date." That wasn't what he intended to say. He had a sudden mental image of his incompetent attempt to seduce her in his apartment, a long time ago.

"Are you asking me to wait for you?"

He nodded. It was easier than finding the words.

"Ok," she said.

He looked at her intently, trying to read her. She gave him a look back.

"Should I be playing harder to get? I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

He stood up abruptly, surprising her. He touched her hand in reassurance.

He returned in a moment with a small velvet box. His heart was beating erratically. The words dried up in his throat.

He flipped it open and pushed it gently towards her. "I bought this when I knew you were coming. I know it's too soon. I just want you to think about it."

She eyed the small band of diamonds uncertainly.

"This is for me?"

"Yes."

She picked the ring up and studied it carefully. He noticed that she did not try it on.

"Just think about it," he said.

She nodded. When she went to hand the ring back, he stopped her.

"I want you to keep it. While you are thinking about it."

"Ok."

He didn't have anything more to say.

At the airport, he held her for a long time.

"I've got to go," she said.

He pushed a few strands of hair away from her face. "Love you." In their days and nights together, he had murmured any number of endearments, but hadn't been brave enough to say those words.

She blushed bright pink and mumbled "You too," before rushing off through security.

He let the tears out once he got in the taxi, turning his head so the driver didn't see. They passed swiftly around the outskirts of the town and out towards the beach.

Jane's phone pinged with a message: _Are you serious about this?_

He replied: _Very serious._

_OK. My answer is yes._

He stared at the phone, unwilling to believe it.

Another message came through.

_It fits._

The taxi pulled up at his holiday shack, the sound of the waves heavy on the breeze. It would take less than a day to sort out his possessions and pay off the lease. He could be in Sacramento tomorrow evening.

He wrote: _See you soon._


End file.
